


Aberration

by Jabbierwocky, sallysorrell



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Mirror Universe, Star Trek: The Original Series, Star Trek: The Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Enterprise, Episode: s02e10 Mirror Mirror, F/F, M/M, Mirror Universe, Multi, Other, Pon Farr, Vulcan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-10 00:24:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1152598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jabbierwocky/pseuds/Jabbierwocky, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sallysorrell/pseuds/sallysorrell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Mirror Spock begins lashing out against the only two men he trusts, all semblance of order on the ISS Enterprise unravels into chaos and mutiny. Meanwhile, Spock struggles to deal with the madness that is quickly burning deeper and deeper into his consciousness.</p><p>When an ion storm hits, Captain Kirk, Doctor McCoy, and Nurse Chapel find themselves in familiar hostile territory. The universe switch may seem like an accident of fate, but sinister intentions begin to reveal themselves in the shadowy quarters of the ISS Enterprise. The three officers need to get back home... </p><p>But Mirror Spock needs something from Bones. Something he can't afford to lose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_Captain’s Log, Stardate 2272.6_

_The mutiny continues.  Twice this week, Ensign Chekov has isolated me and offered hollow threats.  He is a snake… a young one; cornered, afraid, and dangerous._

Chekov darted from behind the door-panel, showcasing a knife he likely borrowed from Sulu.

“Honorable discharge,” he proposed, leaning close to the captain’s face, “Or deceased.  Vhich vould you prefer I send to Command?  I vill make it my first order of business.”

“Don’t hurt yourself,” shrugged Captain Kirk.

_Lieutenant Sulu, although easily passed between sides, is nearly omnipresent.  His name is mentioned in all emerging deals.  Yesterday, he arranged to meet me  in my cabin.  He promised to bring no guards._

“I’ve had enough of your silence, Mister Sulu.  What do you want from me?” demanded Kirk.  His subordinate walked in circles around him, keeping the scar on his forehead in contact with the eerie light.

“I think you’d better rephrase that, Captain,” he gave a smug grin, “With all due respect.”

“You are… easily sold, Sulu.  What does it take to buy you?”

He tapped the blade, kept holstered at his side.

“Blood.  You’ll be seeing some soon.”

_Lieutenant Uhura has blocked all communication signals for nearly forty-eight hours.  Contact with our base is impossible for those without her expertise – or her friendship.  Apparently, this is something I’ve lost._

She gave a sick smile.

“I’m sorry, Captain,” Uhura said, with false modesty, “the frequency is jammed.”

“It’s a medical emergency, Lieutenant.  I will speak to Command immediately.  That is an order.”

“I’ll try again, Sir,” her song was menacing and thick, “Tomorrow.”

_My Chief Engineer, although quiet about his alliances, has been successfully targeted.  He remains in Sickbay, bleeding the blood Mister Sulu foretold._

“You’ll be feeling fine soon, Scotty,” Kirk assured him, the morning he finally awoke.  The gash in his head was tinged with purple, peeking out from beneath plaster.

“Aye, Sir,” his voice was raspy, “And I’ll be sure to give that Sulu a lashing for it.  I’ve got more men than he’ll know what to do with.”

At first, he did not understand Doctor McCoy’s joke, presented as his intravenous solution was diluted:

“More than you can count on two hands?”

Scott looked down at the thick, musky bandages.  One finger did not answer, when he demanded it move.  There was smoke; flesh in a fire.  He coughed and gagged, while McCoy forced him back to sleep, through the sticky contents of a syringe.

_Doctor McCoy is struggling to match the pace of crew casualties.  Rather, he is unable to log them as quickly as he creates them.  This is all done for my protection._

“Can’t you save him, Doctor?” shrieked a yeoman, kneeling beside the victim.

The doctor considered the crewman – his injuries, of course – but also his insignia and his identifying features.  This was not a friend; this was a hired enemy of the captain.  A subordinate, finally at his medical mercy.

He added a new color of blood to the collection on the glass cabinet.  He reached for a primitive pair of scissors, blades long and bent with the stress of centuries.

“Some of him,” he muttered.  His free fingers hooked around the base of the crewman’s jugular vein.  The blades met it.  Blood splattered, as the victim’s breath curled up like a freezing animal, waiting to die in a cave.

Doctor McCoy held him still, until his breaths subsided.  He called for Nurse Chapel to bring him a scalpel, and a pan of water.

The sawing commenced.

‘Bones’, the captain would call him, for his thrift.

_But most worrying is the erratic behavior of my First Officer.  Mister Spock, while consistently loyal, refuses to answer my questions.  Three times he has rejected Doctor McCoy’s examinations.  He has not eaten.  And he does not allow us – um, Doctor McCoy or myself – to touch him.  Spock will not admit anything.  And we cannot help him until he does._

The dark room was disturbed by a greedy beam of light, clawing beneath the door.  Kirk heard shuffling and rustling, and assumed he was being abandoned in favor of an early shift.  Again.

“You still there, Bones?”

The captain rolled over, tangled beneath too many blankets, and stretched out one arm.  He did not expect to feel the doctor’s skin.  McCoy turned, his breath hot against Kirk’s cheek.

“Hmm?”

He placed one hand against McCoy’s chest, to soothe him.  Kirk exchanged the question:

“Spock?  Everything alright?”

His arm climbed up and over McCoy’s shoulder, reaching for Spock.  The Vulcan retreated.

“Nice of you to visit, finally,” McCoy said, “Lay down.”

With one fingertip, he brushed against Spock’s arm.  Immediately, both parties retracted; Spock was hot to the touch.

Harshly, Spock sought McCoy’s hand, and pressed it flat against the bed.  The captain shoved the blankets to the floor, and stood atop them, panicking.

“Spock,” he begged, in a hoarse whisper, “Stop.”

McCoy’s hands did not shake; they never did.  He struggled forward, leaning on his free arm, and staring up at Spock’s glinting  eyes.  The Vulcan shoved his fingers against the doctor’s sweating face, violently obstructing his eyes and mouth.

Kirk hoisted up the blankets, throwing them over Spock’s face and tugging him to the ground.

“I said ‘stop.’”

McCoy sat up, swearing between labored breaths.

Spock turned and stormed from the room, still refusing to speak.

“Spock?!” the captain called, to the shutting door, “Let us help.”

_I don’t know how much longer we can maintain these… relationships.  I feel my entire crew, unravelling beneath me.  With uncertainty infecting even my closest allies, I may become powerless to stop it._

_Terror must be maintained.  Conquest is easy; control is not._

_These are the voyages of the ISS Enterprise._

 


	2. Chapter One: Dragon Claw, Lion Heart

 

**_Vulcan_ **

**_Forty-two years earlier_ **

****

Amanda had never lived near Earthen mountains. These L-langon crags, picturesque from the balconies of ShiKahr, now loomed eerie and threatening over her, an intruding traveler stumbling through the mountain pass. Despite the Vulcan heat, Amanda shivered in the shadow of their stare.

 _Like something from a storybook_ , she thought. 

Amanda toyed with the faint memory of turning a fragile page on an armored man journeying through a treacherous desert landscape. Faraway, ringed in smog, a dragon perched on the mountaintop. Amanda's eyes shifted, and perhaps she heard the scratching of a serpent's talons, the tinkling of his treasured horde. She grew bold at the thought, and felt her shoulders widening into a phantom suit of armor. 

The wind echoed between the surrounding bluffs of rock and continued on through her bones. Instinctively, Amanda tucked the bundle in her arms around the delicate ears of her newborn son. She sighed, peering at the green tinge in the thin skin beneath his eyes, knowing he would never pore over watercolour Fairytales in wonder. He would take no solace in the thought of defeated dragons. He could not.  

 The infant Spock stirred, and Amanda picked up her pace. After glancing at the sun, she estimated she had been walking for at least five hours. Sarek had promised her the pilot had been paid to arrive at dusk and remain outside the gates of the star base until midnight. Not many Vulcans could be swayed by money, but luckily a few had strayed from the path of logic. And Sarek knew with whom to speak.

Amanda nearly laughed at this unexpected blessing of corruption, but she was already panting in the thin air, and her mirth escaped as a hacking cough. She reached behind into her pack and took a swig of water without stopping or letting go of her baby. 

The horizon had just begun to take on a bluish hue, which signaled the approach of twilight. Would she make it? Amanda drew strength from the thought of the cool night surrounding her. Not even Vulcans, or at least not many, would risk the trek through this mountain pass. Amanda's journey was unprecedented. Of course, its emptiness made it the only safe path to the star base, and the only way to save her child. At least the setting sun would provide some relief from the blistering heat, if not the fraying winds.   

Dear God, the winds. The constant howling was starting to get to her, a fluttering heartbeat of fear against her skull. Amanda paused for a fraction of a moment to collect herself. She clasped the bridge of her nose and took a deep breath of not-quite-enough oxygen.

"Get it together, Amanda," she muttered to herself, "If you can have a baby without a peep… without _anything_ but Sarek's flat assurances for comfort, you can make it through these mountains." Some of these _assurances_ rode into her thoughts, whispered by the conniving voice of the wind.           

 _Quiet, Amanda. They will hear you. They will find you. You know full well what my people do to those of impure blood. Is it logical to endure this pain, only to lose the infant now?_ Amanda shook her head, once. With a look at her sleeping son, Amanda pressed two fingers to his forehead before marching on, faster now.           

She would make it.

 

*******

 

Amanda staggered out of the L-langon mountains with perhaps an hour to spare. She could see the star base glittering with light only a few hundred yards away. The second star to the right; the portcullis to a better world.           

Confident of the time, Amanda took a moment to sit on an outcropping of rock and remove the baby's sling to give her shoulders a break. Setting Spock on her lap, she drank the rest of her water down with a dying sort of greed.           

She wiped her mouth. She carried on.           

Approaching the star base gates, Amanda saw a single shadowy figure posted near the entrance. She held her breath, readjusting Spock so he looked more like an innocuous piece of luggage than a living thing, and hoping desperately that he would not begin to cry. Sarek had performed a lulling mind meld with the baby before having Amanda spirited away, and had assured her Spock would not wake until they had left Vulcan far behind. Still, no accounting for illogic.           

She grew close enough to make out his eyes in the dark, and she saw the Vulcan raise a single questioning eyebrow. Amanda took a steady breath and stuck out her chin. Voice clear, she asked:           

"Have you heard the good news?" No sign of understanding fell upon the stranger's face. He simply asked:           

"And what news might that be, ma'am?" Amanda resisted the urge to swear. Her mind fluttered with questions at a pace that might impress a Vulcan: _Where was the man Sarek had bought? Had it been a ruse? Will I be caught and forced to watch my child’s execution, after all?_

In the midst of Amanda's flustered pause, the man narrowed his eyes and tilted his head toward her slightly.           

"Human?" He inquired, voice freezing even colder than the usual Vulcan cadence. Amanda froze. Surely the pregnant human woman was global news. Amanda drew herself higher, channeling the fortitude of the sky, and gave a graceful nod.           

"I have my papers, of course, sir," she promised, bending down and removing the sling from her shoulders, rifling through it noisily. Gently, as though Spock would shrivel up when removed from her life-giving spirit, she set the bundle on the ground, still fumbling for nonexistent identification.           

The Vulcan took a step toward her.           

Amanda sprang from her kneeling position and punched the guard firmly in the solar plexus.           

Shocked, the Vulcan staggered back and dropped his weapon, unable to get enough air. Amanda immediately brought her fists near her face and shuffled to the right, light on her toes. As the man shifted into fighting stance, Amanda aimed a jab at his eyes, then a kick to his groin before continuing to skirt around her dodging opponent.           

The Vulcan punched toward her face, but Amanda leaned back just in time. His knuckles drew so close to her face that she could smell the fresh, chlorophyll scent of his skin. The following punch surprised her and caught her jaw, spinning her head and drawing a creek of blood from her bottom lip. Amanda used the momentum to propel herself into a twirl, swinging a leg up and catching the Vulcan square in the back. Stunned by the force, he fell to all fours.           

 _Thank you Sarek_ , Amanda thought to herself, hoping their bond carried even a whisper of the phrase to him. She fell to the ground and replicated the carefully-taught Nerve Pinch on the back of his exposed neck. Her human approximation did not render him unconscious, merely paralyzed, but this would be enough. After grabbing the sharpest rock in her field of vision, Amanda crashed it repeatedly over the back of the guard's head. He fell limp, splattering hot green blood onto her face.           

Satisfied, she stood. Amanda licked her split lip and grinned at the strange taste of copper mingling with her own iron. Vulcans may be descended from cats, but Amanda was quite sure human mothers were the lions.           

Footsteps approached.           

Amanda spun around, squinting to locate the source of the noise. She waited to pick up Spock, raising her arms and curling her hands in preparation of another fight.           

A dark, willowy woman walked out from behind a watchtower East of the gates. When she was closer, she asked, in accented English:

"Have you heard the good news?"  

 **** Amanda dropped her arms and felt her muscles glow with relief. Bending down, she scooped Spock, still undisturbed, into her waiting arms.           

"I have heard it, sister. Tomorrow we will never grow old."

The Vulcan woman nodded, grabbed Amanda by the elbow, and led her through the gates.           

With a guiding presence, Amanda let her mind loosen, and the rest of the silent walk through the starbase blurred through her thoughts without taking root. Soon, she was sitting on a spacecraft and flying away from Vulcan with no memory of how she arrived. As Amanda looked out a viewing port, the stars seranaded her in celebration.

 

*******

 

When Spock finally began to cry, for a while Amanda simply let him. There would be no sweetness in his childhood, nothing to tend those thirsty seeds of emotion. Even off Vulcan, his mixed heritage must not be immediately obvious. Amanda stared hard at her reflection in the glass, and knew she must fight to purge the softness of a mother from her veins.           

Tomorrow, though. For now she would let her squealing babe pulse with the last of his liberated, wild spirit. Let him have that, at least. Amanda gazed out at the stars.           

She would fly straight on 'til morning.

 

 


	3. At the Crossroads

_ISS Enterprise  
  
_ _42 Years Later_

Spock sat in his cabin, comparing holographic images of his mother to the careful, written descriptions his father composed.  They were not poems - as he learned to be typical of earthly lovers - but legal documents.

He closed the image, upon sensing a presence in the facing corridor.  For years, neither Kirk nor McCoy could move without his knowledge. Especially when they approached him.  It was as clear and intentional as a warm, human hand on his shoulder.

He turned in his chair.  The captain entered first, followed by McCoy.  

“Go on,” Kirk said, nudging his companion.

“You need to tell me what’s wrong with you,” McCoy began.

“That’s an order,” Kirk affirmed.

Again, he turned his chair.  He faced the opposing wall and forced his eyes shut.

“Spock,” the captain’s voice was rarely so soft, “Let us help you.”

The Vulcan turned, flashing both eyes open.  The momentary view of his superior was engraved in the forefront of his mind.  Kirk was defined now by his heat and breath, and the quiet thoughts lulling through their connection.  Spock stood and approached him, hand outstretched.

There was no reason for Kirk to retreat.  McCoy watched, as Spock’s forceful pursuit trapped the captain in the front corner of the room.  Kirk stood firmly, only reaching to catch Spock’s hand, and help it find its place over his cheek.

 _I will not discuss it_ , Spock informed him.

The other hand was presented, beckoning for completion.  McCoy shrugged and approached it, muttering about Spock’s previous bedside behavior.

_You cannot help me.  Not here._

_Sorry?_ McCoy’s thoughts tugged at the curtain Spock had prepared.

_You can best serve me by attending to Engineer Scott._

_Really?_ McCoy continued, inhaling sharply.

Kirk was often quiet during physically augmented events.  His love grew in fields of content, silent observation.

_He has lost a considerable amount of blood, Doctor._

_So have you, for all I know._

Spock’s hand dropped from the doctor’s face, and moved to Kirk’s, aligning symmetrically with the other.

_Leave me._

Kirk nodded as he obeyed.  McCoy tried to follow him, but was barred by Spock’s arm.  If the Vulcan’s eyes had been open, the stare would have been cold but mutual.

No words were exchanged.  Spock shoved McCoy across the room, catching him against the desk.  He leaned back, but Spock’s hands found him.

 _No,_ both thought, in varying intonations.  Spock’s was self-assuring, while McCoy’s was heavy with conviction.

Spock turned and slumped in his chair, leaving McCoy struggling for balance.  His face slammed against the desk.  He arose, skimming the blood between his teeth.  This was wiped defiantly on the desk , as he glared.

The scientist did not answer, in any medium.  His thoughts were caught firmly between fences.  His eyelids did not falter.  His hands found solace on the table.  Slowly, they swept over to the communication unit.

“Commander Spock to Lieutenant Sulu,” the words staggered toward the microphone.  McCoy joined them, swiping one fist over the table.

“Sulu?” he demanded, “You’re gonna talk to _Sulu_?”

The thought lingered, careful in dredging the doctor’s anger:

_Your concern is admirable.  Your jealousy is not._

“Jealousy?  Of all the ridiculous things you could’ve said!”

He tore the Vulcan from his communicator, and leaned close to his face.

“He’ll kill you, Spock.  If you’ve got anything to do with the captain - which I _know_ you have - he’ll just…”

Spock’s eyes opened, requesting silence.  For a moment, McCoy wondered if Spock’s erratic behavior was part of a carefully-organized mutiny. This was dismissed, with an echo of the thought:

_Ridiculous._

Spock glanced at him.

_I am honored, Doctor.  I always intend to protect you, as well as the captain._

“From what?”

Spock felt the hot air against his lips, and returned his focus to the blinking communicator.

“Sulu here.”

“It would be wise of you to report to my quarters, unaccompanied.”

McCoy rolled his eyes and took a sliding step backward.  Roughly, Spock caught McCoy’s hand, digging his fingers into the grooves.  No connection formed; he tossed it away.

_You cannot help me here.  Attend to Mister Scott._

The doors parted, and he backed through them, shuffling to his quarters.

McCoy retrieved a map of nearby, life-harboring planets.  This was presented to Kirk, as an invitation.

“For Scotty?” Kirk confirmed.

“And Spock.”

* * *

 

_USS Enterprise_

"Steady as she goes, Mister Sulu," Kirk ordered gently, relaxing into both the Captain's chair and the thought of a long, uneventful voyage. As Sulu nodded, the bridge crew fell into a companionable silence.

Still, it was not silent enough.

Spock's fingers stuttered over the science station's controls with every erratic beep and whir of the Enterprise's machinations. He inhaled deeply, frustrated that waves of sound and light already sparked his nerves with pain. The fingers' disobedience was imperceptible, but Spock felt sweat bead on his upper lip at the thought that his crewmates would notice their twitching mania.

Spock distracted himself with his diagnosis. He brought it into focus, letting the knowledge rotate on a smooth axis through his mind. The certainty and comprehensibility of the situation calmed him, if only slightly.

The diagnosis was absolute, even  if Doctor McCoy had not provided it. The doctor might, however, help provide the cure. Spock blanched.

The side effects were too severe.

Dreaded green trails of embarrassment rushed to Spock's already flushed face. He could never approach McCoy with his dilemma. Madness, at least, was primitive and irrepressible. Embarrassment was too frivolous, too human, and he grabbed the arms of his chair in an effort to extinguish the imaginings of a smirking McCoy.

Kirk, then, would be the preferable physician. Spock had turned countless corners only to find the captain's hands at his waist, lips mouthing up the sharp line of his jaw, breath flashing hot and short against the sensitive tips of his ears. Spock had woken in bed innumerable times with Kirk pressed up against him, face buried in his neck, fingers clutching at his skin in an unspoken plea for what he wanted.

 _Well,_ Spock thought, understanding only as he could every seven years, _for what he needed._

Kirk's searching hands were always pried from Spock’s body; his efforts invariably scorned. After Doctor McCoy joined them in their bed, Kirk's desperation  blissfully mellowed. Still, Spock could feel the desire in his captain's thoughts when their eyes met. He would be more than willing to… extend an offer of assistance.

_No need to be embarrassed. No need to be embarrassed._

Spock repeated this to himself like a mantra as he spun his chair about, never quite believing it.

Perhaps a wisp of thought drifted through their mental bond, despite Spock's best efforts to contain it. Kirk's his head turned toward Spock, brow quizzical.

Spock stood just as Uhura spoke up:

"Captain, we've just received a distress call from _Vindicta V_. It was unusual; translating it took longer than I would have expected. But the message is clear now, Captain: medical assistance is urgently required."

Kirk instantly straightened into his usual composure.

"Prepare a landing party. I'll beam down with Doctor McCoy and Nurse Chapel, if you'll notify them in Sickbay." Uhura nodded and turned back to her station. For just a moment, the Captain's gaze flickered back to his science officer.

"Mister Spock?" The Vulcan inclined his head.

"It is no matter, Captain. Please attend to the distress call. I will await your return."

Then Kirk was gone, and with him any hope of Spock's remedy.

Spock returned to his station, his shoulders tightening.

 


	4. Needles and Sutures

_Vindicta V_

“ _Vindicta V_ has been experiencing an ion storm, Keptin,” Chekov sneered into the microphone, “It vould be a shame if somezhing happened to you.”

“Thank you for your concern, Mister Chekov.”

Spock, leaning back in the captain’s chair, silenced the communication system, and gave final orders to the navigation crew.  He kept his hands clasped tightly together, causing his fingers to flush with green.

The life-readings on the planet changed as the party reached the surface.  Spock confirmed their safety, igniting the microphone with his arm, rather than freeing either hand.

“One last thing,” Kirk said, as his materialization completed, “Have transcripts sent to Command immediately.  I don’t care if Lieutenant Uhura signs them or not.”

“Acknowledged.”

The captain took a quick visual survey of his new surroundings.   _Vindicta V_ was not a planet the Empire had ever bothered to visit; it held no worthwhile materials, and produced no notable figures.  But there were humans, and the ship’s medical stores required fresh stock.

“Uhura can ignore it all she wants,” Doctor McCoy offered, “She’s keeping herself at the end of my list.”

“I like her there,” Nurse Chapel suggested, “She’s fun when she’s desperate.”

“Nurse,” Kirk said, “If your personal involvement interferes with this m—”

“Never, Captain.”

They began walking in the direction dictated by both medical tricorders, flashing red and blue alternately.

“You’re sure they’ll have what you need?” Kirk asked, leaning in and folding an arm around the doctor’s waist.

While he nodded, Chapel remarked about the captain’s own ‘personal involvement’ and laughed breathily.

“From what I can tell,” McCoy explained, “They’ve only evolved into sixteen different blood types.  That’ll cover most of the crew.”

“Scotty?”

“Easily.”

“There’s a concentration of life readings there, Doctor,” Chapel said, pointing eastward.

They turned and followed her indication, tricorders beeping as they approached the human residents.

“Weapons ready,” the captain advised, “Let’s make this quick.  And quiet.”

He kicked down one wall of the primitive building, reveling in the hushed terror of the natives.  They stared and scattered, but not fast enough.  Never fast enough.

All were corralled within the locked room, and given orders in a language they did not understand.  When Chapel’s tricorder dictated the need of a young girl – no more than six Earth years of age – McCoy shrugged and took her arm.  Her mother cried and pulled her away, offering herself to the unknown.

“Fine,” McCoy said, mostly to Kirk.

The woman sat and shook, but did not scream.  The doctor unpacked his tools.

 _Quick and quiet_ , McCoy’s thoughts repeated, as he crouched over the first unfortunate target.

Chapel held one hand over the woman’s mouth while the other monitored the tubes she was now dependent on.  Her blood flowed cleanly from her arm, and into a labeled receptacle, ready for immediate transport to the ship.  In Sickbay, Mister Scott shivered and waited; this was the only answer which would provide warmth.  Health.  Life.

As the container brimmed, Chapel nodded once at McCoy and tugged away the tubes.  She took her hands from the victim’s mouth; she was barely strong enough to breathe, and would not scream.  The captain preferred innocuous silence on away missions.

“Is that all you need?” Captain Kirk asked, stooping nearby.

McCoy removed his knife from its sheath, saying he would hate to ruin his reputation.  Kirk nodded, but did not watch the evisceration.  He wiped his face, and watched the natives as they knelt and wept.

The questionably sterile pans, which the medics used for organ collection, dematerialized.  Chapel stood, muttering to the captain that their work was no more than halfway finished.  She disappeared next, protesting with a scream.

“Jim!” McCoy called, reaching a gloved hand toward him.

The transporter beams arrived to collect them, unrequested.

* * *

“A medical emergency?” McCoy confirmed, as the group materialized beneath the USS Enterprise, “But the Federation’s never even _been_ to this planet… at least, I couldn’t find any records of it.”

“ _Vindicta V_ ,” Kirk sighed, “You’re right; no visits, just scans for the census.  They seem to have a relatively stable human colony.”

“According to Mister Spock’s coordinates,” Chapel said, staring into her tricorder, “there are thirty-three human life-readings in this sector.  We should continue to the west.”

“I still don’t like this,” McCoy maintained, restraining the captain’s shoulder, “How would they get a distress call to a starship they’ve never had contact with?”

“Let’s find out,” Kirk said, “Phasers on stun.”

McCoy reminded Kirk that he was the only one who bothered to bring a phaser, and the silence was broken by awkward laughter.  The device would remain holstered.

Captain Kirk was cautious in opening the door of the structure which housed the humans.  They were huddled around a young girl, writhing in a puddle on the ground.  Dirt; they had not developed to the point the landing party expected.

A woman tended clumsily to her wounds, and would not face the strangers until Kirk grabbed her by the shoulders.

“I’m Captain James T. Kirk, of the United Starship Enterprise.  We received your distress signal.”  He glanced at the girl, “How was she injured?”

Silence.  The crowd took a collective step away, while the girl gave dry and desperate sobs.

“Are you a physician?” Kirk continued, “A… a healer?”

Empathy wove across McCoy’s eyes, as he knelt beside the girl and sorted through his kit.

“Her mother,” he said.

Chapel joined him in studying the patient, and called for Scott to transport additional supplies to their location.

They all stared at what they received.  Particularly McCoy, who reached habitually for what Chapel provided him, then shook his head upon seeing it over the wound.

“I can’t fault Scotty for that,” Kirk said quietly, watching the confused crowd, “We shouldn’t interfere; our evolutionary estimates were… centuries off.”

“They just watched something appear out of thin air,” countered McCoy, “It doesn’t matter _what_ , at this point.  Get me my surgical kit.”

Kirk refused to remove his communicator from its hook.  Everyone, aside from the mother and injured daughter, stared at him and shuddered at every movement.

McCoy shrugged and threaded the needle, on his first attempt.  He muttered about archaic medicine, while Chapel stroked the girl’s hair.

“Captain,” Scott’s voice crept over the communicator, “There was a transporter malfunction.  Is everybody alright down there?”

Kirk moved slowly to retrieve the communicator.

“Fine, Scotty.”

One of the natives stepped forward.  Kirk glanced at the medics, working to reconnect the curtain of skin the girl clutched to.  His sigh was resigned, as he balanced the girl’s life against those of his officers.  His crew would win, always.

“Be ready to beam us up, on my signal.”

“Jim,” McCoy said harshly, “If you think I’m gonna leave her here like some… half-sewn—!”

“ _Shh_.”

Several of the inhabitants slid blades from beneath their tunics and stepped forward, chanting in a language the officers did not recognize.

Kirk’s focus toggled between the girl and her people.  He considered his phaser, but it would be ineffective against so many, at such close range.  All outfitted with weapons.

“Bones,” he urged, almost afraid to move his mouth, “Come _on_.”

A knife hit the wall, above Kirk’s shoulder.

“Scotty!” he said, dragging the doctor from his work, “ _Now_.”

“Jim, take her with us.”

“Bones, I n—”

The transporter beams encircled only the officers, while the mother tore the needle backward through her child’s wound.  McCoy buried his head in both hands.

Knives soared through the air as they left it.

* * *

_USS Enterprise_

 

Spock waited in the captain’s chair, constantly readjusting his arms.  The panel was jarringly cold, but the buttons remained hot against his simmering skin.

He was aware of the blood in his fingertips as he ground them into opposing palms.  Beyond this, he saw nothing.  The screen before him was blurry, and its messages unintelligible.

 _3.83 hours_ , announced the patrol of his mind, _until the onset of  plak-tau._

There was a light tap on his shoulder.  A soliciting knock.

He spun and found Lieutenant Uhura, stumbling backward and nearly falling.  She leaned against the railing, blinking heavily.

“Engineer Scott called for you, Sir,” she said, igniting his communication channel, “About the landing party.”

“Reduce to one-quarter impulse power, Mister Sulu,” Spock instructed, before accepting the message, “Is there a problem, Mister Scott?”

“They’re still in the transporter, Sir.  Going on five minutes now.”

Spock nodded in acceptance, deciding not to waste patience on explaining the side-effects.  Mister Scott was aware of them, anyway.

“Describe the malfunction.”

“I would if I could, Sir.  None of my readings are stable.”

Spock leaned back in the chair, turned toward Sulu, and requested an updated meteorological report.

“The planet is experiencing an ion storm,” said Spock, satisfied with the measurements, “Redirect impulse power to the transporter.”

“Aye, Sir.”

 _3.71 hours_.

Spock terminated the call.

_******_

The engineer tested the strength of several wires, beneath the main console.  

He clipped one and soldered it to another, completing a colorful maze between the power sources.  As he worked, he kept a light clamped between his teeth, letting his nervous breaths spiral in around it.  He leapt up, dropping his tools and heaving up the communicator from the control table.

“Give me impulse power,” he called.

“All yours, Sir,” said Sulu.

The engineer attacked the switches, throwing them all forward at once.  Lights flickered around the platform, and the familiar mechanical echo arrived.

The cool air tickled the inner workings of Captain Kirk's flesh as his atoms rejoined around it. As usual, the sensation felt unpleasant, but Kirk detected something else tingle through him. The hairs on the back of his neck rose as he rematerialized.

Foreboding.

Calloused fingers tightened on Kirk's shoulders with a quickness electrified by fear. Jim understood McCoy's uncharacteristic warning immediately; the arrowhead insignia emblazoned on the welcoming red of Mister Scott's uniform was informative enough.

They had been here before, but only once.

Without wasting time on causative speculations, Kirk nodded meaningfully at his doctor and promised himself the misfortunes of the past would not be repeated.

Nurse Chapel, who had slipped Kirk's mind, suddenly spoke with a voice that matched her widened, shifting eyes. She stared in shock at her attire and gasped out:

"Captain, what the _hell._.."

Kirk's neck careened toward her, his gaze glinting in the stead of his suddenly absent dagger. With a wicked grin, he pressed a single finger to his curling lips.

 


End file.
